Chapter 292: The Power of Lanfang's Artillery

"That's a new artillery piece," Captain Schmidt, the Degjun observer standing nearby, said, pointing toward the artillery positions behind them. "The leFH18 105mm howitzer supplied by you, Lanfang. It was only deployed last night."

Matsumoto followed his finger with his gaze. About three kilometers away, six guns were firing continuously. The muzzle flash stood out in the dim pre‑dawn light, and the whistling of the Shells together with the explosions formed a rhythmic symphony.

"The rate of fire is high," Schmidt said, looking at his pocket watch. "Six to seven rounds per minute, twice as fast as our s. FH13. And the trajectory seems flatter, with a shorter time to impact."

In the periscope, the Russian positions were shrouded in explosion smoke. The engineering works were overturned, the barbed wire shredded, and occasionally a body was lifted by the blast wave.

"The bombardment was effective," Schmidt evaluated calmly, "but the real test comes after the shelling. The Russians are adept at surviving under artillery fire; their trenches are dug very deep."

The bombardment lasted twenty minutes. Then a signal flare rose—green, indicating that the infantry should begin the attack.

Matsumoto adjusted the periscope and looked toward the riverbank. Japanese soldiers leapt from the staging area, forming a scattered line advancing toward the water. They wore newly issued winter camouflage, and the white over‑coat blended into the snow.

"Is that the new unit?" Schmidt asked.

"The 13th Division, 25th Infantry Regiment," Matsumoto replied, while scanning the crowd for Muto Shinichi.

The soldiers reached the riverbank. The Niemen River was narrow at this point, about fifty meters, but the current was swift and parts of the surface were frozen. Engineers had erected a makeshift pontoon bridge, though it was very unstable.

The first squad stepped onto the pontoon bridge. At that moment, the Russian positions came back to life.

Machine‑gun fire erupted from the smoke. Not one gun, but at least three, creating intersecting fire. The soldiers on the bridge fell like wheat being reaped, plunging into the icy water.

"Maxim!" Schmidt frowned, "the Russians have hidden the machine guns in flank bunkers; our shelling missed them."

The attack stalled. The soldiers crouched on the riverbank, pinned down by the machine‑gun fire.

"Artillery! Requesting artillery support!" the frontline officer shouted into the telephone.

The rear new artillery adjusted its firing parameters. Shells began landing near the Russian machine‑gun positions, but the effect was limited—the bunkers were covered with thick timber and earth, and could not be destroyed unless hit directly.

"We need more precise fire," Schmidt said, "or…"

He didn't finish his sentence before a change occurred on the front.

Several Japanese soldiers sprang from a shelter, holding a strange weapon—a short barrel, like a grenade launcher but bulkier. They knelt on one knee, bracing the weapon against their shoulder.

"What is that?" Schmidt raised his binoculars.

Matsumoto also looked. He had never seen such a weapon, but had heard of it—the Lanfang‑developed "trench mortar," 89mm caliber, designed for short‑range indirect fire.

The soldiers loaded a Shell and fired. The Shell traced a high arc, soaring over the bank and dropping almost vertically above the Russian machine‑gun bunker. The blast was dull, but the effect was clear—one machine gun was silenced.

"Good!" Schmidt clapped, "Indirect fire weapons are very effective against trench works! What is the range?"

"About five hundred meters," Matsumoto replied, citing the figure from his training briefing.

More mortars were thrown into the fight. Japanese soldiers reorganized their attack under fire cover. This time they altered tactics—not pressing the pontoon bridge directly, but sending a detachment upstream to cross the river and attempt a flank encirclement.

Matsumoto spotted Muto Shinichi among the crossing unit. The young man moved swiftly, leading a squad across the ice. Bullets splashed water around them, yet no one retreated.

"Brave," Schmidt assessed, "but the tactics are still too direct. If it were Degjun, they'd use smoke grenades for cover and engineer demolition, not a head‑on rush."

That's the problem, Matsumoto thought. The Japanese bravery is unquestionable, but their tactical thinking remains stuck in the Russo‑Japanese War era. Against modernized trench defenses, bravery often means heavier casualties.

Muto's squad successfully crossed the river, approaching the Russian positions from the flank. They tossed grenades and then used bayonets to clear the trenches. The fight turned into the most brutal close‑quarters melee.

Matsumoto saw Muto grappling with a tall Russian soldier. They rolled in the mud, and finally Muto drove a dagger into the opponent's throat.

"He survived," Schmidt said, "lucky."

The battle ended half an hour later. The Japanese seized the outpost, but at a terrible cost—of the reinforced company of 250 men, fewer than one hundred remained standing. Corpses floated on the river, turning the water pink.

Matsumoto left the observation post and headed to the front. He needed to find Muto and deliver the letter to him.

The captured Russian positions were a mess. The trenches were littered with bodies—Russian, Japanese, tangled together, indistinguishable. Survivors cleaned the battlefield, collected weapons, and evacuated the wounded.

Matsumoto found Muto Shinichi deep in the trench. The young man was perched against a collapsed parapet, his face smeared with blood and mud, his gaze empty as he stared at the sky. His left hand was loosely bandaged, still bleeding.

"Muto Shinichi?" Matsumoto asked.

Muto slowly turned his head, looking at him blankly: "You are…"

"Matsumoto Koji, training camp instructor. Your brother asked me to bring you a letter."

Hearing the word "brother," Muto's eyes lit up. He struggled to his feet: "My brother? Where is he? How is he?"

"He's in Nagasaki, serving in the navy; all is well," Matsumoto said, pulling the letter from his coat and handing it over.

Muto took the letter with trembling hands, eagerly tore it open. The letter was brief; he read it quickly, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"What does it say?" Matsumoto asked.

"He told me to come back alive," Muto said with a wry smile, "He said, don't act like a hero, don't do the reckless charge. Coming back alive is more important than anything."

He folded the letter carefully and slipped it into his close‑fitting pocket: "But my brother doesn't understand. Here, it's not a matter of whether you want to be a hero. Often, you have no choice."

Matsumoto understood that feeling. In Ogustov, Sergeant Yamada didn't want to die, and Oshima didn't want to die, yet they both perished. War is like that; it devours everything, whether you want it to or not.

"You're wounded," Matsumoto said, looking at his bleeding left hand.

"It was a bayonet cut, not serious," Muto said, "but my squad… sixteen men, now only five remain."

He pointed beside him. Four soldiers sat there, some smoking, some staring blankly, all covered in blood and exhausted.